


The Shops on Shield Street

by fluffernutter8



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben Wyatt voice: it's about the small businesses, F/M, Fluff, Steggy Week 2020, other side characters but they don't have speaking roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25448260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffernutter8/pseuds/fluffernutter8
Summary: Running a small business is already hard enough without someone trying to sabotage things.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 34
Kudos: 94





	The Shops on Shield Street

The first time Peggy visits Steve’s shop is the day he opens.

Working just down the street, she’s spent the past few months watching the renovations at what had been most recently been a short-lived scented candle business. When the new signs and awnings had gone up naming it as Shield Street Books, she’d been further intrigued; she’s seen various stores come and go through the space, but a bookshop is new. Now, on her lunch break, she takes the opportunity to go visit.

She looks over the front windows first: the right-hand side is filled with buzzy new releases and bestsellers for adults, the left with books for younger readers. The windows themselves are painted with a colorful but subtle border of books on the right, while the left side features lovely illustrations of Wild Things marauding across the bottom, a mockingjay pin hidden along the side, a Little Prince floating among the stars at the top, and a web reading “Some Pig” in the corner. The chalk sign reads “Grand opening” on one side and “Ask us about our events!” on the other.

Peggy is cautiously optimistic as she steps in, a cheerful little bell jingling as she does. The space isn’t cavernous but it’s large enough, and the high ceilings, big front windows, light wood flooring and shelves, and friendly gray-green walls make it seem more open. The checkout is easily visible, a chalkboard wall above it featuring a listing of upcoming book club meetings, a coffee and cookies social series, and a reading by a local poet (Peggy supposes that you have to be a bit more established to start getting better-known names).

The front area has all the typical souvenirs everyone around here sells - magnets, mugs, pens, postcards - along with fancier or more specifically bookish things like scarves, tote bags, and book weights which seem to be attracting some good attention. A few people are looking at the cookbooks and coffee table books lining the walls and stacked on tables nearby, and she can see browsers in the labeled aisles spanning out into the main area of the store: mystery, biography and memoir, young adult, politics, each with an appropriate, particularly-styled illustration. A sign pointing downstairs advertises a used book area, as well as a gallery and event space. She breathes in the scent of fresh wood and words on paper, officially impressed.

She is examining a table just before the aisles which is covered with a display of staff favorites when a voice behind her says, “I love that one.”

Turning with the copy of _My Favorite Thing Is Monsters_ still in hand, she encounters the man who until now she’s only seen at a distance, occasionally ducking in and out of the store while it was under construction. He’s tall and blond, with broad shoulders beneath his heather gray T-shirt, plain except for a small, oddly-rendered sketch of a pale turquoise bird in side profile and showing one large eye. She tries not to let on how distracted she is by the hint of a darkly-inked tattoo peeking out from the bottom of his sleeve; his blue eyes are watching her clearly from behind a pair of thick-framed glasses.

“I’m sorry?” she asks politely, trying not to let on that she’s slightly lost the thread of how things started.

“That’s a great book. I love it,” he offers, shrugging awkward shoulders although his smile is still lovely and genuine. “Although it’s not too surprising seeing as I’m most of the staff here, so the table’s pretty much stacked with books I love.”

“You must be the new owner then,” Peggy says, putting out a hand. “Congratulations. I’m Peggy Carter. I run Top Shelf Tea and Coffee up the street.”

“Steve Rogers, good to meet you." He shakes with her, then gestures to the book she’s still holding in her other hand. “Are you browsing for yourself, or just over here to check out the new neighbors?”

“I think I can do both quite handily,” she says, smiling back at him. “Though I don’t typically read graphic novels. Perhaps you can recommend something else?”

Nothing precisely shifts about his posture, but she suddenly has the sense that he’s more settled on his heels, focused even more intently on her. “What do you typically read?”

“Very little, of late,” she admits, making a bit of a face. “I used to read quite a bit of mystery - Gothic, classics, noir, Agatha Christie, Tana French, and my favorites were those where you get suspense and a good story but a good sentence too. But with everything on my plate, I’m lucky if I can get through a half chapter before I go to sleep.”

“Sure.” He crosses his arms, which does nice things for his muscles, as well as showing off an extra sneaking bit of his tattoo. Watching him think, she has the sudden feeling that she’s in very good hands. And, when he rings up a collection of P.D. James short stories and one originally published in Swedish called _An Elderly Lady Is Up to No Good_ (“With your schedule, it might be easier to enjoy a little section over a night or two rather than trying to force yourself to make it through a hefty novel”) along with a copy of Dorothy B. Hughes’s _In a Lonely Place_ that he’d tracked down in the used book section (“It’s not long, and it’s dark, smart, psychological noir”) it seems she’s right.

* * *

Peggy is not behind the counter when Steve shows up at her shop the next day, but she comes out from the back when she recognizes his voice ordering the house blend coffee.

“I had expected you to have more of an opinion than that,” she teases as she walks through from the kitchen with a tray of fresh scones to load into the display case and finds him waiting to pick up his drink. He’s come in past the commuter crush and before the lunch rush, but even with Peggy’s staff working quickly and efficiently as usual there’s enough of a wait to guarantee a moment to chat. “I certainly anticipated your drink of choice would be something with minimal fuss, but I would have guessed at something with a bit more imagination at least.”

He laughs. “I’m just trying to get the lay of the land here, and the house blend is how I know what kind of joint you’re running here.” Rose places a cup labeled “Steve!” on the counter, smiling at him before she twirls away again. He picks it up, takes in the steam rising through the lid, smiling as he does. “It smells good. But when you name your place ‘Top Shelf,’ you have some pretty high expectations to meet,” he warns, smile still flickering around his mouth.

“Don’t worry.” She leans over the counter toward him. “The expectations are exactly where I want them.”

His eyes widen after the first sip and he takes a second before he’s even swallowed. “You were right. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I know,” she says plainly. “And my true expertise is with the tea. Try the Irish blend next time you’re here, or a cinnamon rooibos latte if you’re feeling adventurous.”

His eyes smile over the top of the cup and he takes another sip. “I guess I’ll have to keep coming back with so much to try.”

“I suppose you will,” she says, trying to sound friendly but casual when she adds, “And I’ve finished two of the stories in the P.D. James, so I might have to come back for more recommendations soon.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” he tells her. This time, even with the clamor of people waiting behind him or skirting huffily around to pick up drinks, he isn’t smiling, he’s grinning.

* * *

By the time Steve drops in one afternoon eight months later, he is a very familiar sight. Daniel wraps one of the enormous seasonal apple-cinnamon muffins as soon as he walks through the door then waits for him to order a drink - the staff knows that while Steve certainly has favorites on the drinks menu, he changes between them often enough to keep things interesting. (He always orders a muffin, though: apple-cinnamon in autumn, blueberry the rest of the year.)

Usually they don’t have time for lengthy chats during the day considering the crowds at Top Shelf and the customers and part-timers waiting for Steve to return over at Shield Street, but today when Peggy comes out to say a brief hello, she finds Steve sitting at one of the tables. The small tilt of his head as their eyes meet is enough for her to slide the proposal she’s reading about switching dairy providers into her pocket and walk over to sit with him. The little two-seater he’s picked is away from the large front windows, and she seats herself in the comfortable leather armchair across from him with a feeling of relative privacy.

“Is something wrong?” she asks. Steve’s doing well enough as far as she knows: Shield Street seems often to buzz with foot traffic and they’ve been promoting their online store, there is a solid slate of events and programs including the coffee and cookies socials for which he sources the refreshments from Top Shelf, there was a lovely recent write-up in the local paper, and he’s even been able to hire a full time employee other than himself. Still, she knows entirely too well that the life of a small business owner can be somewhat exacting and stressful. Small mistakes in ordering stock or taking on a bit too much can be enormously costly, and even when you’ve done everything correctly, factors outside your control can conspire against you without much of anything to serve as protection. Steve’s tense expression mirrors the way she sometimes felt in the first few years after she’d opened - and still does today, if she’s being honest.

He sips his tea slowly, and she can tell it’s not because he’s finally remembering her advice about allowing the flavors to settle.

“There was a guy in at the store this afternoon,” he says finally. “Stuck around a long time, looked in every corner, and then didn’t buy anything. But I overheard him on the phone when I was coming over here.” He looks up at her, eyes somewhere between hard and stricken. “Peggy, I think he’s from Hydra.”

* * *

The common wisdom is that the largest threat to small businesses are superstores and online giants, the franchises of the world which can spring up on every corner or be available at a moment’s notice, backed by large pools of money that leave them free to take risks and undercut other vendors, offering brand recognition to customers across large areas without being tied by communal or ethical bonds to any of the places they land.

Hydra, a business conglomerate few had actually heard of, took the pushback against big chains and used that for its own ends. Rather than focusing on any single industry, or even establishing Hydra brand all-in-one stores, their model was to sweep in to buy various local businesses and keep their original names, or to establish seemingly innocuous storefronts without any stated connection to Hydra. But while people thought they were shopping locally and supporting their own neighbors, helping to maintain healthy competition and a diversity of business, mass-produced goods would slowly replace the higher quality ones, workplace regulations would be flouted while employees were scared into silence by the power of the corporate owners, and money would flow out of communities and into Hydra’s distant and ever-deepening pockets. Steve and Peggy kept their finger on the pulse of the small business world, and they had read stories online, often later hastily retracted or swiftly vanished, stories of small towns and cities across the country where, within a few years, whole streets full of businesses that seemed to be independently-run and community-owned were actually just cheery facades under one corporate umbrella.

And now Hydra was here. Peggy thought about the shops between her business and Steve’s: the florist, the hardware store, the brewpub, the rare family-owned pharmacy, the ice cream parlor which is part of a beloved local chain, the independent movie theater, the places on other streets in their town which sold toys and art supplies and comics and shoes.

Behind her, the door opens. A squat, balding man enters, grandfatherly dapper with a suit, a bow tie, round glasses, all undercut by the coldness in his gaze. He looks around at what Peggy has built - the scattered tables and cozily diverse seating options from armchairs to stools to window seats, the carefully hung plants, the racks of magazines and stacks of available books which Steve has selected for her, the displays of art by students from the nearby universities, her talented staff, and of course her carefully curated menu - and writes something brief in a small notebook. He steps up to the counter to order.

“That’s him,” she says to Steve, barely a question. “That’s who you saw.” He nods, looking down into his mug, fingers tight around the solid pottery. Peggy remembers picking out these cups, sorting through dozens of listings until she found the exact ones she wanted: an entire range of colors, big enough for a good serving size and for wrapping hands around, but not awkward to sip at.

“If it is them,” she says, knuckles clenching beneath the table, “we won’t let them win.”

Steve looks up at her; the smile on his face is wan, not up to the usual brightness she looks forward to, but it’s the first one she’s seen at all from him today. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

* * *

The man approaches Steve first, introducing himself as Arnim Zola. He’s done his homework, knows about the finances of the shop and about Steve’s personal finances as well, from the loans he’s taken out to the fact that his mother had barely anything to leave him when she died.

“You’re a smart businessman, Mr. Rogers, I have seen that quite well. Though you might have good growth now, who knows what tomorrow might bring? Selling now and taking the money which comes with the offer, that is the smart business decision.”

And Steve, for whom courtesy is not second nature but first, has trouble turning him down with a “no thank you,” rather than a “piss off.”

Zola seems to hear it anyway, but he overcomes the spasm of anger with a smile. “I will be happy to speak to you later, if anything happens to change your mind. As I said, there is quite a lot of unreliability in business ownership.”

A pipe bursts in the back of the store that night, even though they’d all been replaced as part of the renovation. A good chunk of inventory gets soaked. Peggy walks past the next morning to find Steve putting the less damaged material out on a rack to sell at a steep discount. He tells her what happened with barely concealed fury in his throat. They hadn’t heard about Hydra deliberately driving owners to sell, but neither of them is exactly surprised.

Peggy goes to work for the next few days with her head full of rage and incipient plans. When Zola comes to request a meeting and make his case later in the week, she turns him down so sweetly that it takes a minute for him to understand that it had even happened.

* * *

She’s never had Steve over to her little flat above Stewart’s Sandwich Spot, but after a few days of working across the empty tables of Top Shelf or cramming into Steve’s office after they’ve locked up for the night, she invites him to join her.

“I had concerns about pests and odors when I first came,” she says as they climb the narrow back stairs single-file, “but I’ll have lived here five years this January and haven’t had a problem with either. In fact, waking up to the scent of their fresh bread every day is quite the bonus.”

“Plus you can pick up dinner on your way in.” Steve’s voice behind her is teasing, though accurate, as he’s currently holding the bag with the food they’d bought three minutes ago: a Tipsy Texan for her and his Peter Paul Ruben along with several orders of the fries which Peggy promises are outstanding.

She’s right. The agreed-upon brief break for sandwiches spirals into experimentation as to which of the various dipping options is the best for the french fries, then into conversation about places they’ve traveled and the best foods they ate there. Peggy backpacked a bit after university, and still tries to take a bit of vacation when she can. Steve, she finds out for the first time, was in the army and was deployed several times.

“The guys I went over with, we all came home,” he says quietly. They’ve gotten into the wine at this point. “We all got these together.” He stretches down the collar of his shirt enough for her to see some very nice muscles as well as a tattoo: concentric red and white circles with a blue center marked by a star. The outermost circle reads “107th Regiment.”

“What is the one on your arm?” she asks before she can stop herself. He chuckles and lifts his sleeve where she can now see the words clearly inked in black around his bicep: “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit,” ended by an ellipses trailing from black to gray to white.

“My mom used to read Tolkien out loud at bedtime,” he explains. “And I still think about the way that one sentence opened up a whole world, a whole _life_ , for me.”

She pours a touch more into her glass, shifting her feet up onto the sofa beside herself. “You’ve always loved reading, then?”

“Yeah. Back when I was growing up, if I wasn’t really sick, I was just getting through being sick or getting started being sick again. All that time in bed, I needed a lot to read; I was always going through the big stack of books next to my bed, or listening to some audiobook on my old Discman. When I was doing okay, I used to go talk to the librarians, and I was around so much that eventually I started volunteering there.”

He chews through one of the last remaining fries, cold now. “When I got discharged, I didn’t know what I wanted to do with myself. All I could think of was how good books made me feel, how important they were for me, how I could help put them in the hands of others. And then one day I was walking by, saw the For Sale sign on the space, noticed that the street sign said Shield, and just knew.” He shrugs. “There are small business loans aimed at vets, and my friend Bucky went into construction after we came back, helped me put the place together the way I wanted it.”

“And all that starting with one little hobbit,” she says with a smile. She pushes her hair back, feeling flushed and a bit young.

He leans against the back of the couch. “How about you? What made you decide to open Top Shelf?”

“Spite,” she answers promptly, making him laugh. “It’s entirely true. I wish I could tell you some sweet story about my grandmother bringing me to a tea shop every Saturday back when I was a girl, but I wouldn’t lie to you. The fact of it is that my mother accepted my coming to university in the States, but as I was finishing my degree, she became quite adamant about my doing graduate work to enter into law or finance. I had little interest in either, and didn’t want simply to put in the investment because she was forcing me.

“At the same time, I had a part-time job at a coffee shop where the owner was the worst sort of boss: constantly critical without any actual suggestions for improvement or true understanding of daily operations, unwilling to make necessary changes or updates, over- and under-scheduling the staff at a whim. Finally I told him that in one day I could have the place running better than he ever could, at which point he started fuming that doing his job was harder than I could imagine, and fired me. By that evening, when my mother called once more to have a ‘little chat about my future,’ I told her that I had started a business plan and would be opening a tea and coffee shop as soon as possible.”

“How did she take it?” His voice is softer. Somehow they’ve moved closer together on the sofa. With his arm draped along the back, his fingertips graze the gauzy sleeve of her blouse.

“She shouted at me, hung up, and refused to speak to me for several days, but that just gave me time to become more confident and knowledgeable by the time she called next.”

“And you succeeded.”

“I did.” She stops herself from leaning into him the way that she wants to. She might get a bright rush hearing his voice at the counter during the day, might drop by his shop for a new book even while she already has several still waiting at home, might relish this extra time to discover the thoughtful, generous, opinionated details of him of which she’s seen captivating hints over the past months, but they have a purpose here. She clears her throat, steadies herself. “I succeeded, and I mean to keep what I’ve made.”

It’s after midnight when Steve finally goes home. She tries to tell herself that it’s a shame that they didn’t really have a chance to work on their strategy, but when it means that they come back to her house the next night, and go to his the night after, she can’t be truly upset.

* * *

As a business owner and a town resident of over half a decade, Peggy has been to a council meeting or two in her time. But she prepares for tonight with special attention, leaving the shop early enough to take a longer than usual shower. She chooses a recently purchased top - navy with silver and pale blue detailing, a flattering silhouette, and a modest V-neck - and adds makeup with more than her usual care. She finishes with her usual scarlet lip and, taking in the finished product, nods firmly, picks up her bag, and goes to meet Steve.

He arrives at nearly the same time, and they take seats together in the center of the town hall meeting room.

“A good turnout,” Peggy says quietly, glancing around. “And look who’s here as well.”

Zola sits in the back of the room, quietly taking things in. She suspects that keeping abreast of town news is a part of his job. Hopefully he will be earning his salary tonight.

Most of the agenda is spent on the typical dull dealings: a proposal to change the language on parking citations is taken up and passed, followed by a bit of a tussle over the budget, then it’s on to a rousing discussion about recent changes to state alcohol legislation and the impact on local restaurants. At least the recognition ceremony for two teenagers who rescued a man drowning in the nearby lake is touching and breaks the monotony.

“And finally,” Chester Phillips, the head of the council, grumbles. He’s clearly very much past ready to adjourn. “We have an item put forward by Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers. An item very recently put forward,” he adds, shooting a glance at Peggy. The official deadline for getting onto the agenda is 24 hours in advance, but Peggy knows that the secretary, Miriam Fry, usually prints and posts things a bit early. While their proposal came in just under the deadline, the agenda had already been publicized; Peggy wanted as much of an element of surprise as she could muster to avoid sabotage.

“Good evening.” Peggy starts them off. “As many of you know, I own Top Shelf Tea and Coffee on Shield Street. I’ve been so pleased by the welcome the town has given to myself and my shop over the past several years, and I wanted to come forward tonight to raise awareness of something which has been recently affecting our local business community.”

She knows her points well after running through them with Steve for the last few nights. Without referencing notes, she smoothly and carefully explains Hydra’s background and the way their business model has caused trouble for other communities. The articles she references, entered conscientiously into the record, might be smaller pieces, but they are from reputable and reliable news outlets; Bruce Banner, the reference librarian, had helped them put together the resources with that in mind.

“Mr. Rogers and myself have received offers to purchase our businesses. We would also request that that council hear from others who have also been under recent pressure to sell.” Peggy gestures over her shoulder, where a good-sized part of the assembled crowd is standing, ready to come forward.

“Before we get to that, is there an actual proposal attached to all of this?” Alexander Pierce asks. He’s a popular, long-serving council member, distinguished and seemingly considerate, but there’s a strange hint of ice in his voice, in the blue-gray of his eyes, that makes Peggy suspect who exactly put the town on Hydra’s radar and why they seemed so certain that they would be able to work with impunity.

“Our proposal is a council resolution simply acknowledging the remarks made here today,” Steve says, the words not loud but quite firm. “It isn’t the council’s responsibility or within their authority to prevent private sales between willing parties, but we want to make certain that everyone in this town knows the coercive measures Hydra has taken in the past and will almost certainly take in the future in order to gain and maintain control of local businesses.”

He takes a breath, pushing up his glasses reflexively before he speaks. “I opened my store more recently than Ms. Carter did hers, but I’ve also felt lucky to have been able to support and be supported by this community over the past months. Moving here and opening my business has given me something I never thought I would find.” His gaze moves, for just a moment, from the council in front of them, to Peggy, who is watching from beside him. Their eyes meet so quickly she nearly wonders whether it even happened before he turns back to conclude, “I have no intention of giving up my business. And we want everyone to know that we are willing to continue fighting for however long we have to.”

“Now I—” Pierce started, but Nick Fury, a council member who rarely speaks and who Peggy knows always gets his coffee first thing in the morning to avoid running into anyone trying to discuss council issues, leans forward so his microphone picks up his words clearly.

“I’d actually like to hear from our fellow citizens, Alex,” he says, and nods for the first speaker to go ahead.

The comments last for a long while. Some people speak only briefly about being approached by Zola or other Hydra representatives, bombarded with testimonials from business owners from other towns who sold to Hydra in the past. Others have lengthy (and well documented, Peggy made sure of that) stories of escalating problems and harassment: health or building code inspectors being called and finding minor or suddenly appearing violations, delayed shipments from previously reliable vendors, spontaneous problems with heating or cooling systems.

Someone from the local paper always covers council meetings, and she’s sitting in the front row scribbling away for what will undoubtedly be a far different article than usual. But news travels fast, and as the hours march onward, more and more of their fellow townspeople squeeze into the meeting room to hear things for themselves.

Steve and Peggy expected it, but as the last of the business owners moves aside, they trade a glance seeing Arnim Zola step up to the podium.

“In my capacity as a representative of Hydra, I would like to officially demand that minutes and records of this meeting be restricted pending a defamation lawsuit which the corporation will be bringing,” he says, eyes flashing behind his glasses. The words are so practiced that Peggy feels her suspicions about the fight against Hydra in other places nearly confirmed.

“Those are a matter of public record,” Mrs. Fry says sternly. Peggy smiles. They don’t always see eye to eye, but she knew that Miriam could be relied upon to protect the integrity of the process.

Fury adds laconically, “And it will be a little difficult to put the genie back in the bottle.” He looks over everyone’s heads to the back of the room, and raises his voice to ask, “Live stream still running smoothly, Stark?”

Tony Stark, the teenaged son of the municipal head of IT, barely looks up from his phone as he gives a thumbs up. “Directly on the town website, YouTube, and Twitter, plus a few backup sites I’ve set up just in case. And I’ve been live-tweeting the whole time. First council meeting that’s ever been even close to interesting enough for me to even want to do that.” He leans back in his chair, feet up on the table and fingers typing rapidly.

The calculation is clear across Zola’s face. Leaning into the aisle so he can hear her, Peggy says quietly, “If you still manage to convince someone to sell, there’s little we can do to stop you. But you can see the town turning against the idea of you, and any of the usual tricks you try to pull will only make it worse. I doubt you’d ever be able to make a success of things here. I would cut your losses now, Mr. Zola. Everyone knows who and what you are. You can’t hide in the shadows anymore.”

* * *

Zola leaves before the resolution passes. Although they keep an eye out for him over the next weeks, they don’t see a sign of him again.

* * *

They have the other business owners over for a drink down in the event space at Steve’s shop. It was already late when the meeting finally adjourned, and it is even later once the last person - Thor, who owns the Norseman brewpub and is still laughing heartily at a story told by Luis from the electronics repair store - closes the door behind him.

“I wanted to tell Sam to take the morning off,” Steve says as they tidy things up, “but I have the feeling we’ll be even busier than usual tomorrow.”

Peggy smiles, collecting the empty bottles in a paper bag for recycling. “I think he’ll forgive you when he sees it reflected in his paycheck.”

Steve glances over the used book shelves, making sure they’re all orderly, switching a few around to keep things alphabetized. “If this keeps up, maybe I can have Nat and Wanda full time soon.” With one last glance at the shelf, he goes over and drops tiredly into one of the chairs that they have yet to fold and put away. There are plenty of other places to sit, but Peggy comes and turns a chair so she’s facing him. Their knees are nearly touching.

“I hadn’t realized quite how tense I was until the weight was removed tonight,” she says softly, just for him. “And while I know that we should stay alert and that complacency works against us, it will be such a delight to go into the shop tomorrow without feeling as if ruin was coming up on the horizon.”

“You deserve that,” Steve says, and somewhere over their work together, they’ve become comfortable enough that he already has her hand in his and she didn’t even notice until just now. “And even if they regroup fast, we’ll have a day or two to catch our breath before we start putting out resources for other communities dealing with Hydra.”

That familiar determination is back in his voice, and she realizes that so much of him is familiar now. She knows that his glasses are the last hint of the poor health which plagued him growing up, has seen pictures of his mother and recognizes where he inherited his fair hair and strong features. She has seen his tattoos and knows what he wanted to memorialize on his skin.

Looking him over, she sees that sometime after the meeting he has changed into a T-shirt that she recognizes.

“That was what you were wearing the day we met,” she says. “What made you choose it for your opening?”

He glances down. “It’s the Pigeon, from the Mo Willems series. Popular picture books, ” he explains. “I know that I can be a little intimidating for the kids, and I wanted something that would be familiar and friendly, something we could talk about together so they could get to know me and wouldn’t be as nervous.”

It’s such a simple answer, so unsurprising and considerate and right, so _Steve_. She frees her fingers from his so she can hold his face in her hands.

“You’re a very dear man,” she informs him, and presses her mouth to his.

* * *

Quite a while later, as Steve finally turns the lights off in his shop, finally put to rights, he asks, “Are you free again tomorrow night? I’d like to take you out somewhere that doesn’t serve sandwiches.”

“I won’t mention it at Stewart’s.” She tucks herself under his arm as they step into the cool of the street and he turns to lock up.

He laughs. “They don’t have to worry much. I’m sure we’ll be back.”

“I’m certain we will, though perhaps Thai for tomorrow,” she says thoughtfully as they walk. “But come to the shop sometime earlier, will you?” A grin is growing on her face. “I have some ideas I want to discuss about unseating Mr. Pierce at the next election that I’m not sure are proper date conversation.”

“My definition of date conversation is whatever you want to talk about,” he says, his voice never anything but honest. “But sure, I’ll come by tomorrow. I can’t get through the day without your latest matcha concoction, and I want to hear what you have planned for Pierce.” His grin is growing to match hers. “Whatever it is, I wouldn’t bet against us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 4 of Steggy Week 2020. Prompt: AUs and crossovers.
> 
> This was kind of a last minute substitute - I had a totally other AU planned and partially written but I knew the timing wasn’t going to work out; there was too much still to go before posting, so I stuck two popular AU types together to create this instead.
> 
> On to some stuff related to the Current Situation: I know I was painting a pretty rosy picture here in regards to small businesses, but it did break my heart a little writing this, considering how many have been severely damaged and in some cases forced to close over the past few months. I based Steve’s bookstore on my favorite local indie (obviously, since I spent more time on scene-setting here than probably in all of my other stories combined) (maybe hamevin yavin, but props to anyone who can recognize it based on the description!) and I’m hoping that consumers who are able and - crucially! - government/s can manage to make sure that it and other businesses like it stay open for a long time to come.


End file.
